


The Fisherman's Daughter

by cumberbabeswillrise



Series: The Fisherman's Daughter [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Depression, Drug Use, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, Mystery, Physical Abuse, Suicide, Verbal Abuse, Violence, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberbabeswillrise/pseuds/cumberbabeswillrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is an abused teenager, by his father and by kids at school. He seeks refuge in the boat of a fisherman's daughter, one young Molly Hooper. With the help of Molly's twin brother and a new boy named John Watson, he rescues his sister from the abusive hands of their father and attempts to expose him for what he really is; a domestic abuser, all the while trying to keep his feelings for Molly at bay. Sherlolly. major character deaths. John and Mary. mentions of suicide and depression. violence and violent character death along with abuse and drug abuse. Mentions of gay hate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Could I fly? Maybe. Maybe it'd be easier to cut away the pain. Maybe it'd be easier to shoot it away. Maybe I could swim away from it, use rocks to test my strength._ Sherlock Holmes thought these things day in and day out. High school was no place for a boy like him. The Holmes' mansion was no place for a boy like him. No place was a place for a boy like him.

He walked the streets of London, his pocket knife feeling heavy in his trousers. His eyes felt equally as heavy, for he hadn't slept in days. He'd ceaselessly walked from one side of London to the other, careful to avoid the streets Mycroft would go looking for him on. The truth was, he didn't want to be found. If they found him they'd send him away to that place again. He didn't like the asylum, it was cold and dark and it made him feel even worse. The last time he was there one of the other patients had tried to kill him with a sharpened crayon.

Sherlock had first visited St. Bartholomew's Institution for the Mentally Ill when he was ten. He'd tried to kill himself after being beaten up by some of the other boys at school. It had been the third time that week and he couldn't take it anymore. He'd skipped four grades and each year the boys became meaner and meaner to the 'freak'. His brother Mycroft had found him, quickly tying his wrists with two scarves and then carrying him to the hospital, telling him the entire time that he'd be alright. Mycroft had told him he wasn't in any trouble, that he understood how Sherlock felt, then he'd dropped him off at the Institution and hadn't come back for two weeks.

Sherlock had been there many times in the past seven years, each time for a suicide attempt or mentioning suicide. He'd also had to go to visit the psychiatrist, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock liked her, she was genuine and had a sweet smile, but she didn't understand how he felt. She was normal. He was not.

He was seventeen now, tall and gangly and exceedingly smart. He still got beaten up on a regular basis, except now he didn't even defend himself, he didn't care anymore. He just wanted one of them to hit him hard enough so that he never woke up again, so he'd drift off into the black abyss and float forever in contentment. They never did. They always made sure he stayed awake during the beatings, that he felt every blow with more pain than the last.

Two days ago had been the last straw. He'd been walking out of the school yard, expecting the beating, yet it hadn't come. Cautiously, he walked toward the Holmes' mansion, not wanting to attract too much attention to himself. When he entered the mansion he found his father, red faced and holding an open letter, and his mother crying in the foyer.

“What happened?” he quietly asked, thinking a family member had died.

“I wasn't aware that I'd raised a queer,” Siger slowly spat through his teeth.

Sherlock didn't understand. He wasn't gay, neither was Mycroft, “What?” he immediately regretting answering the rhetorical question, for his father's face had turned a deep purple as soon as he spoke.

“You. The queer. Your boyfriend sent me this letter, handed it to me today just before I entered the house,” his large hands crumpled around the letter dangerously. Sherlock could see the thick veins nearly bursting from them. Sherlock flinched as Mycroft entered the room, carrying a tray of tea.

“I'm not a qu-”

“Don't lie to me, boy!” his father screamed, taking three strides forward and clamping a hand around Sherlock's thick curls. He yanked Sherlock's face viciously upward to look at him, “You're a queer and we all know it. No wonder we've had to send you to that damn psych ward so many times, you are a freak!”

Without thinking, Sherlock knotted his fingers into a fist and slammed it into his father's face, “I'm not a queer and I'm _not a freak_ ,” shaking, he grabbed the letter from his father and ripped it in two, “They're lying to you. Why would my _boyfriend_ send you something that could hurt me? Really, observe and think, old man!”

Siger merely looked at him with disgust. He punched Sherlock. In the chest, the face, the abdomen. Over and over until Mycroft pulled him off of Sherlock. Sherlock breathed heavily and looked at his family. His mother crying in the corner. Mycroft holding his bruised father as Siger spat indecencies at his youngest son. His little sister Charlotte peeping at him from the corner, tears in her big blue eyes.

“Now you wonder why I've wanted to end it all,” he spat at them as he dragged himself from the mansion, slowly making his way down the winding drive. He wiped blood off of himself as he went, trying to hold back angry sobs of frustration. The bloody teenager, broken in more ways than one, pulled his hood over his head and wandered deep into the heart of London.

His legs were achy from the incessant walking. He wanted to stop but knew that as soon as he did the tears would come, the deep unendurable sadness would come. It would swallow him like a whale does krill, never letting him see the light of day again. Sherlock almost wanted to walk himself to the Institution, check himself in and save the police the trouble. Maybe this time his family wouldn't call the police, they'd let him get killed in a back alley. He could hear the pill bottle shaking in his bag. Maybe if he swallowed all of them, he'd die quickly.

Sherlock ran into a wall, or what felt like a wall. He looked down and saw that he'd run into a shorter stocky college kid with dirty blond hair.

“Gee, I'm sorry. Are you alright?” he asked as he picked up his bags and patted Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock winced at the contact, more from fear than pain.

The man looked at him and his eyes widened, “Are you alright?” he repeated when he saw Sherlock's bruised and broken face.

“Fine. Sorry for running into you. I wasn't paying any attention. Sorry,” Sherlock attempted to push past him. The boy looked familiar. He probably went to the same college that Sherlock did. It was a big campus, but Sherlock was sure he'd remember the young man, for he looked like he was nice.

“Did some one do this to you?” the man's blue eyes bored into him, like he could see through Sherlock's facade.

“No, I did it to myself. Look, I have to go. I'm really sorry for running into you. Forgive me for my rudeness,” Sherlock pushed past him and shoved his earphones in, cranking up Beethoven as loud as he could. He could still feel the young man's eyes on him even as he turned the corner.

He hated his father. He hated his mother and Mycroft for letting his father hit him like that. He even hated Charlotte, even though there was nothing she could have done to stop it. His father had done that for years and no one seemed to care. Kids had beaten him for years and no one did a damn thing about it. Mycroft had once explained that it was a part of life that Sherlock would have to get over. It happened to him, and it was going to happen whether Sherlock liked it or not. It would happen to Charlotte, just like it happened to their mother.

Sherlock wasn't gay. He didn't like men, he barely liked women. He didn't care if someone was gay, it was their life and not his to do with what they pleased. Just like this was his life and he should be able to end it if he wanted. His father, the old twit, should have thought about the letter. What kind of loving boyfriend would send a letter that would get the other killed? None, that's for sure. If Sherlock was gay there would be signs, like preferring to be in the company of men rather than women. He didn't like the company of men. They all wanted to be alpha's and they only knew how to take orders from others. He didn't like the company of women. They just let people do rude things and never tried to stop it, at least not from what he'd seen. Not once had he seen a man or a woman stand up for any one but themselves.

No one had ever stood up for Sherlock, not even his own mother. When Sherlock had first tried to kill himself, his father beat him unconscious for breaking the mirror to do it. The second time he'd attempted to jump off a high building, but a police officer pulled him back just in time. His father had broken his left arm and fractured his cheekbone. Every other time he'd tried his father had done something worse to him, like that would make him scared to try. It just made him want to succeed even more. Someone always found him, stopped him, saved him.

Sherlock reached the pier and stared out at the sea. It was ugly. The dark blue-green-grey colored water was unwelcoming and dirty. It smelled bad, like fish and waste. It was cold and unruly, threatening to pull him down and never let him go. He wished he didn't know how to swim. He sat down on the edge of the pier and focused on the way the waves crashed in the distance. He didn't hear someone yelling his name, only felt the small and dainty hand fall on his shoulder, causing him to visibly jump.

“Sherlock! What are you doing here?” he found himself staring into the pretty eyes of the fisherman's daughter, Molly Hooper, “ _What the bloody hell happened to you?_ ” she cupped his face in her hands, her dark brown saucer's wide with worry.

“Nothing. I'm fine,” he refused to meet her kindly gaze, but when he did he saw the tears clouding her perfect face.

“No you're not. It was those boys, wasn't it? Michael can talk to them, if you like,” she told him, referring to her twin brother.

“It wasn't them. Really, this time it wasn't,” Sherlock gave her a fake smile as he felt her wrap her hands around his waist.

She laid her head on his shoulder and he felt her tears seep through his jacket. “Then who? Why would someone want to do this to you?” Molly was his best friend. The only one he ever liked to talk to. He loved her, really. Head over heels for the fisherman's daughter. He'd never told his father because Siger wouldn't like it, him loving the poor. _If you want to help the poor you pay them, you don't fuck them_ , he'd say.

“It doesn't even hurt that bad,” he lied through his teeth. It hurt like hell. But it felt good to feel her arms around him, even if she pressed against his bruises.

“Come on,” she stood up and grabbed his hand with hers, “you're coming with me. I'll patch you up.”

He stood up with her, but let go of her hand. He didn't want her to see his bruises, to see how weak he really was. “No. I'm fine. Scout's honor,” Sherlock held up a bruised hand over his heart to show her he meant business.

“My brother's not home, he won't see you,” she told him as she practically dragged him back to their family boat. Sherlock reluctantly went with her, hoping she'd only want to look at his face.

“It doesn't even hurt!” he said as Molly forced him into a chair. She had to reach on her tip toes for the first aid kit since it was on top of the cabinet, making him smile.

“What?” she asked when she saw him grinning at her.

“Nothing. You're just so short,” she was only about five-two, making him a whole foot and two inches taller than her.

“Sorry, growing up in a boat doesn't give you as much leg room as a mansion does,” she joked with him.

“I'd have rather grown up here, Molly,” he looked away from her and dropped his smile. She frowned and sat on his lap and forced him to look at her.

“Your father did this?” she whispered.

Sherlock didn't even answer her, which was enough for her. She had suspected for a long time that something bad was happening at the Holmes' manor. She'd seen Sherlock bruised and bloody more times than she could count. Sherlock winced as she applied rubbing alcohol to a cut on his forehead.

“Why don't you just stand up for yourself? Or leave for good?” she whispered as she cleaned him up, trying to keep the tears from spilling from her eyes.

“I did leave. You think the old man would just let me leave?” his dead eyes looked into her's, wishing he could be as happy as she.

“You shouldn't let him keep you down, kick you like a common dog. You're his blood! You'd think he'd love you more than anything. Why did he do it this time?”

“Someone sent him a fake letter saying I was a homosexual. He completely snapped, Molly. This was worse than any beating he'd ever given me,” he immediately regretted his words, for her eyes flew to his shirt, as if she could see the bruises right through it. Cursing Siger Holmes to the high heavens, she peeled Sherlock's bloody shirt off to inspect.

There were large black and purple bruises all around his ribcage, trailing down his abdomen and up his neck. Some of his skin had split from the impact, and Sherlock was sure he had a broken rib or two. Shaking with anger, Molly applied more rubbing alcohol to Sherlock's cuts and handed him a frozen bag of peas for his face. When she combed her eyes over his arms she gasped as she saw his scarred wrists.

“That bastard...” she took his wrist in her small hands and rubbed the pink scars gently, as though she was scared they'd burst open at any moment. She kissed them with her coral pink lips and then looked at him. “He doesn't deserve you. None of them do. Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry no one saved you,” Molly's lower lip quavered and she threw her arms around his neck, “I'm not letting you go back. I'll protect you forever.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her petite body, holding her tight as he bit back bitter tears of self pity. He buried his face into her neck and they stayed there, for what felt like hours, not saying anything. Just blissful, happy silence.

“Uhm, Molly?” Sherlock heard her brother Michael enter the boat, knife in one hand, dead fish in the other. “Sorry to interrupt, but... when are you going to start dinner?” He looked at Sherlock, and nodded at him with understanding. Michael had always been good to Sherlock, just like Molly had. Their father had died two years ago, leaving Molly and Michael to uphold the fishing business with their mother, who lived on the boat as well, but spent most of her time working in London. The twins were often left alone for weeks.

Molly let out a small laugh and stood up from Sherlock's lap. She grabbed the fish from her brother and kissed him on the cheek. “Right now. Sherlock's going to stay with us for a while.” She told both of them, not letting Sherlock protest.

“Okay, well, I invited John over for dinner. I've got to go put away the net, but John will be here within the hour,” he nodded to Sherlock again, then went back to the upper deck.

“You don't have to do this, you know. I'm fine. I can survive on my own,” Sherlock knew that that was a downright lie, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to impose.

“Don't be stupid, Sherlock. We both know you can't. You can go to school during the day and help out around here at night if you really feel like you're such a burden. Michael adores you, mother does too, and I'm sure you and John will get along just fine. He goes to the same college as you and I.”

Molly had gotten to skip grades as well, for she wanted to be a pathologist and was by far one of the smartest people Sherlock knew. Michael quit school once his father died, using the mantra, “If Papa didn't need school, neither do I,” which Sherlock felt was stupid, considering Michael was just as smart as Molly.

“I don't know how to fish, Molly,” he felt bad, he didn't know how to do much of anything besides get hit for being an annoying git.

She laughed lightly and turned from the stove to face him, “You can help me cut, then. I'll teach you. Michael can teach you how to use the nets,” she washed her hands and stepped forward to cup his face in them when she saw his doubt, “You can do anything you set your mind to. Remember, no one can make you feel inferior without your permission.”

“Eleanor Roosevelt.”

“Yeah. Feminism at it's best,” Molly smiled and kissed him tenderly on the nose before turning back to her fish.

Sherlock smiled as well. He was about to put his shirt back on when Molly ripped it from his hands. He looked up at her in shock.

“No. Uhn uh. You can wear one of Michael's clean shirts. Come to think of it, you look like you haven't showered or slept in days, and knowing you, you probably haven't. You can take a shower and sleep in the extra room. I'll get you a towel and some clothes,” Molly removed the fish from the stove and turned it off, then glided up the stairs.

She came down with dark jeans and an old Eton t-shirt folded on top of a light blue towel. She pointed him toward the loo and then headed back to the kitchen. Sherlock had to admit, the shower felt amazing. He looked at himself, disgusted with the bruises that littered his pale, muscled body. He could have stood up for himself, but he didn't. At least, not as well as he could have. He managed to give Siger a pretty nasty black eye, which made pride surge through him. Sherlock knew how to fight, knew how to do damage to another person, but he never used it. Probably because he always felt like he deserved it. It was a cycle, the nerd gets picked on by the jock's. Not only was he a nerd, he was a freak. Dressed in all black and had the felon kind of hair, dark and unruly. He even did drugs, which rendered his physical capabilities.

Thinking about it, Sherlock needed a fix. His needle was in his backpack, which was still in the kitchen. He felt his hands begin to shake. What would Molly think if she knew? Would she hate him like everyone else did? Finally see him for the useless piece of dirt that he was? Sherlock dried off, dressed and made his way to the empty bedroom. He was happy to see that Molly had put his backpack on the bed. Quickly, Sherlock tied the tourniquet and did his dirty deed.

Feeling physically better, Sherlock took his depression medication and anxiety pills, making himself feel mentally better. He rubbed his eyes and put on one of the sweaters Molly had laid out on the bed. When he went back to the kitchen he found Molly, Michael and the boy downstairs. It was the same boy who'd run into him on the street. The wall.

“Sherlock, this is John Watson. John this is Sherlock Holmes,” the boy looked at him knowingly, obviously recognizing him, and shook his hand.

“Nice to finally meet you. Molly talks about you a lot,” Sherlock smiled as he saw Molly's face redden as she laid out the food on the table.

“Same to you. I've heard good things about you from Michael,” they all sat down at the table and made awkward conversation.

“Holmes. You wouldn't happen to know the people who live in Holmes' Manor, would you?” John asked him, obviously recognizing the looks he and his mother shared.

“Relatives. Don't talk to them very often,” which was true. Sherlock never talked to his family members. He only ever talked to Charlotte. He loved his sister and now regretted leaving her in that house with those people. Charlotte was just as dead as he and Mycroft were, but she still needed him. She was probably cursing him at that very moment. Sherlock excused himself from the table and grabbed his cell phone from his room. He dialed his baby sister's phone number and prayed that she'd answer.

“Sherly?” Charlotte whispered into the phone, “Where are you?”

“The Hooper's. Why are you whispering? Are you safe?” Sherlock heard the fear in her voice. He could almost picture her. She'd probably locked herself in his closet, like they used to when they were children. He'd put a lock on it when he was twelve and had hidden Charlotte there many times.

“He went crazy when you left, Sherly. He's insane. Mother's hurt badly... She can barely get up from the bed. He even hit Mycroft!” she sniffled and Sherlock heard her begin to cry. His grip tightened on the phone. She was only sixteen. She didn't deserve this.

“Leave, Charlie. My bedroom window is right above the garbage bin. It's the day before pickup, so it'll be full and soft to land on. Get some clothes and I'll meet you somewhere. I promise, we can leave together.”

“He'll come after us. Mycroft told me not to follow you. He told me that I'd only get hurt like you did!” It made Sherlock very angry to hear his baby sister cry. It made him angrier that Mycroft had told her to stay in that hell hole.

“Did he hit you?” Siger had never hit Charlotte, at least not to Sherlock's knowledge. If he had, Sherlock wouldn't have let him, he'd have jumped on him like a wild badger.

“N-not like he hit you.”

“How, Charlie? What did he do?”

“Nothing like he did to you, I promise Sherly.” she blubbered into the phone, “I'm coming. Will you please help me out the window? I don't think I can jump by myself.”

“I'll be there within the hour. Be ready when I get there. If Siger spots me there, he'll kill me,” Sherlock hung up the phone and went downstairs.

“I've got to go.”

Molly looked up from her plate, a look of fear in her eyes, “You're not going back.”

“I've got to get Charlotte.”

“We can help you,” Michael motioned toward John, “We're good athletes, I'm sure we can break into Holmes Manor.” John nodded along with him.

“He'd kill you if he saw any of you,” Sherlock didn't want them to get hurt trying to help him.

“I'll go too,” Molly stood up and walked toward him.

“No!” All three young men yelled as soon as she spoke, “You're staying here,” Michael took her by the arm and made her sit back down in the chair.

Michael and John went outside to get rope and things to help them break into the gated community Sherlock lived in. When they left, Molly gulped and Sherlock saw that she was trying not to cry.

“It'll be fine. Your brother and John will be fine,” he put his hands on her shoulders, trying to comfort her.

She stood up and looked at him, “It's not them I'm worried about! It's you, Sherlock! You're in no condition to leave. What if you don't come back this time?” Molly bit her lower lip to keep tears back.

“I'll be fine, Molly. I promise that I'll come back. I won't let him take me from you,” she looked at him in surprise, and for a moment he wished he could take the words back. Much too forward.

She then surprised him by kissing him hard, almost causing him to fall back, “You better come back, or so help me, Sherlock Holmes...” she whispered into his red ears. He felt his cheeks burning and was really glad Michael and John weren't there to see him. He kissed her lightly on the cheek and went to the top of the boat, where Michael and John were waiting for him, smiles on their faces.

“Oh, piss off,” he waved them off and they set off for the other side of London, back to Holmes' Manor.


	2. Finding Charlotte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, loves! This one's short. But I'll leave you with one of those darling cliffhanger's!(:  
> Enjoy! And Please leave some feedback and read my other fics I've got on my page!(:

They reached the gates of Holmes Manor about an hour later. Sherlock was nervous. He'd never really defied his father. Ever. The past two days had been an exception, for he was always fearing that his father's fist would come down before one could say, “Deerstalker.”

Michael easily threw the rope over and tied it to the bottom part of the fence, then began scaling it in the security of the tall bushes. When he reached the top, Sherlock grabbed the untied portion of rope so he could climb down the other side instead of jumping. John took the rope from Sherlock, letting him go first. When they were all on the other side of the fence, Sherlock cautiously led them to the right side of the mansion, to where the trash bin was, underneath his window.

He sent his sister a quick text and waited for her head to pop out of the window. Just as he began to feel anxious, he saw her bag fly out of it, landing in the bin. She threw another one out and then hiked her leg over the side. Her long black hair flowing behind her, she jumped into the bin with a soft crunch.

“Ew. That was not fun, Sherly.” She frowned at him and grabbed his hand as he helped her out of the bin.

“This is John. You know Michael.” Sherlock motioned toward the two boys behind him as they all began moving toward the fence again. “Where is Siger?”

“He left. Went to the Diogene's club with Mycroft. He dropped mummy off at Eileen's. I told him I wanted to stay home and sleep, so he let me.” In the darkness, Sherlock couldn't see her face. He desperately tried to see if she had any bruises, glad that he couldn't see any so far.

Michael went over the fence first again, waiting at the top for Charlotte so he could help her down. He held the rope as John and Sherlock made their way over as well, then they all quietly headed down the nearest alley.

They breathed easier on the way back to the boat. They even slowed their pace and talked a little louder the further away they got from Holmes manor.

A car drove by them, illuminating all four of their faces. He looked over at his sister as it did so, feeling anger bubble up inside of him when he saw her face. Her bottom lip was split and her left eye blacken. He knew Michael and John saw it as well, for he hear them both gasp and growl like he had.

“Ow. Sherly you're hurting my hand.” Sherlock immediately let go of Charlotte's hand, realizing he had grasped it when he saw her face.

“Sorry. Did you grab me some clothes, too?” He asked, motioning to the second bag she'd thrown from the window.

“Yes. As many as I could fit there. I grabbed your stash and your money as well as your usb drives. Didn't know if you had anything important on them.” She handed him the pack. It was one of the larger duffel bags that he owned, she'd put her clothes in the largest.

“Yes, actually I do. I forgot about this.” He pulled one of the usb's out, examining it in the moonlight.

“What's on it?” John asked, squinting at it.

“I documented all the bruises and black eyes I've received since my tenth birthday. I think I even have a video or two on here as well.” He smiled devilishly at them. He had the perfect leverage to put Siger Holmes away. “Now, I've got a few more bruises to photograph, then we're home free.” Sherlock stuffed the drive back into the bag and felt bit of a hop in his step.

Another car drove past them, this time slowing down a bit. Without thinking, Sherlock grabbed Charlotte's hand and began running as fast as his long legs could take him. Michael and John ran as well, Michael holding Charlotte's bag.

Sherlock cursed himself. He should have known it wouldn't have been that easy to sneak Charlotte out of the mansion. _Stupid. So damn stupid._ It never could be that easy. Not with Siger. As they ran, Sherlock felt Charlotte begin to lag, her asthma probably kicking in. He dared not look back, though, for fear the car would be right by them, waiting to snatch them and bring them back to the darkness.

Sherlock turned into an alley, then another, then another, until he didn't have any idea where they were. He kept them all running for a good half hour, not leaving anything to chance. When they finally stopped, they all rested their hands on their knees and breathed heavily for what felt like hours. Sherlock had to think about everything Siger knew about him.

Did Siger know he was friends with the Hooper twins? _Not unless he'd had me followed, which he probably had._ Would it be safe to go back to the boat? Put Molly and Michael and John in danger? _No. That's the stupidest thing you could think of, Holmes. He'd kill Molly, no worse, he'd have someone else kill Molly and then he'd laugh at you for being broken up about it._ There was no way he could put Molly in danger like that. He didn't even want to put his sister in danger like this. Maybe Mycroft could help. _No, stupid. Mycroft? The supposed 'brother' who calmly watched every time that man beat the shit out of you and left you crying and broken in the foyer? Mycroft would be the first one to turn you over. And don't even think about mummy, she's weaker than a final stage pancreatic cancer patient._

Sherlock put his hands to his temples, willing his brain to shut up and allow him to think. There had to be some way that he could come out of this on top. His inner monologue uttered insults at him as he attempted to think his way out of this situation. It wasn't helping him like it usually did. This was it, then, wasn't it? He'd finally been so badly broken that even his conscious refused to help him.

“We've got to get back to the boat.” Michael huffed, his cheeks red from the random burst of exercise and the cold wind. “We can untie and re-dock somewhere else. That way he can't track us. Besides, my father made sure that the boat was unmarked, in case someone tried to hurt us in anyway.”

“I can't let you take us in, Michael. Not now. If that was him, he's probably seen you and is running your face as we speak. He'll find you, Molly and John, and I can't let that happen. Charlotte and I should be fine if we keep to ourselves. I've just got to get to a police station.”

“You'll need witnesses if you're going to try to put your father away. They won't just take your words for it, especially if your father is as powerful as you seem to think. Molly, Michael and I could help a lot more than you think we could.” John put a hand on his shoulder, as if that would reassure him that they could help.

“He'll find a way to all of you. He's practically the British government, you don't realize. He's got connections everywhere, eyes everywhere. This isn't just about him going away, it's his ego. If he's even accused of something of this degree, he'll do anything to clear his name, even if it includes killing off a couple of seventeen year old's.” Charlotte's shaky voice resounded from behind Sherlock. “I think it's a bad idea.”

“If one voice stands up, another one will. Maybe Mycroft will help. He's a witness, so is your mother!” John's voice became more passionate, rising in volume and incentive.

Both Charlotte and Sherlock scoffed. “Mycroft will inherit Siger's position. Mummy likes her full sized, swan feather bed far too much to say anything out of turn.” Sherlock spat, the words coming out like bile. “We have no one. Our entire family is made up of snobs and British politeness. They wouldn't say a single thing out of fear that they'd be labeled an accessory, or worse, a snitch.”

“We're not leaving you.” John stomped his foot for good measure, earning him a nondescript look from the Holmes siblings.

“Molly and I have stood by you since the beginning, Sherlock. Why would we leave now?” Michael squared his shoulders and took his place beside John. Both had a feral look in their eyes, blazing with defiance and loyalty, Sherlock knew that there would be no talking them out of it.

“Fine.” Sherlock rubbed his temples and closed his eyes once more. “But don't expect me to be happy about it.” He opened his eyes just as he heard the car tires squeal and Charlotte's screams begin to fill every fiber of his being. 


	3. Incarceration

Sherlock vaguely felt her hand being ripped from his mercilessly. He heard the thick crack as John and Michael were hit from behind. He heard another loud crack, then realized it was his own head hitting the ground just before everything went black.

 

Sherlock awoke inside Holmes Manor, lying on his own bed. He reached his hand to the lump on the back of his head. It had been bandaged and cleaned. His head was spinning, it hurt like hell. He'd had some migraines before, but this trumped them all. Sherlock stumbled to the door so he could throw up in the loo, only to find that it was locked. He shook the door handle like a twit, thinking that it would magically open like some girl in a horror flick. Turning, Sherlock went to the window, pulling back the curtains to find himself staring at thick iron bars beyond the window glass.

“What the hell?” He whispered in horror as he fell back onto his bed. His room had been trashed, clothes and objects thrown everywhere in such a fashion that would make a drill sergeant weep.

Sherlock heard a knock at the door, then the sliding of locks, and Mycroft entered his room, sporting a black eye. He looked at Sherlock with a mix of anguish and anger.

“Look what you've done.” He motioned to the hurricane remnants of Sherlock's room. “You couldn't just leave it, could you? You had to bring in the cavalry. You only have a few months left, Sherlock, then you get to leave. You could have dealt with the few punches here and there, you know? Now it's going to be Hell on Earth for you. You've only made it worse for Charlotte, for Mummy. He hadn't touched a hair on her raven head until you pulled this foul act. Did you see what happened to her? She almost made it without a single bruise, Sherlock! You've ruined everything, everything, you hear!” Mycroft locked the door behind him and sat near Sherlock on the bed, head in his hands.

“It's a bad thing that I wanted to leave? That I wanted to get Charlotte away from these people?” Sherlock spat at his older brother. “What the Hell is wrong with you, M?”

Mycroft glared up at him, his blue eyes piercing Sherlock to his very core. “I was trying to preserve Charlotte's innocence. I was trying to make sure she wasn't permanently damaged from this!”

“Innocence? M, she lost that a long time ago, she probably never had it. All of the time she had to watch us get our asses beat, all of the times she saw us bloody and bruised and depressed, and you don't think that permanently damaged her? God only knows what he was doing to her behind closed doors, M! He's a monster that needs to be put down, M.”

“Yes. He is a monster, and you're just lucky that he picked me as his right hand man, Sherlock. Yes, you.” Mycroft added as Sherlock gave him a look of pure confusion. “You think that I don't know about that Hooper girl? I made well sure that he didn't know a damn thing about them. I know you like that fisherman's daughter, Sherlock. You never speak of her, but I've heard you call out for her in your sleep. I've seen you walk past her boat many a time and speak with her with a look so disgustingly sappy that I can't help but feel sorry for you. I had to make sure he didn't use her against you, Sherlock. So, no matter what you think, I've stuck out my neck for you more times than you think!”

“Where are Michael and John?” Sherlock whispered, his heart beating in panic at the thought that Siger could have done something to them.

“On that street that we took you from. I only rendered them unconscious, so they'll be there until they wake up.”

“Charlotte?”

“In her room. Siger went in there an hour ago and hasn't come out since. He won't let me in there.” Mycroft looked angrily at his hands. “She was screaming for a while, but I haven't heard anything for about a quarter of an hour.”

Sherlock stared at his brother in horror. “Why haven't you pulled him out of there? Let him in here, Mycroft! Sneak her out, get her far away from here. He can do whatever he likes to me, but he needs to leave her alone.”

“I told him the same thing, even offered myself, but he just pushed me to the side and went inside.” Mycroft choked out. Sherlock could see he was at war with his actions but Sherlock didn't care.

“She's your sister, Mycroft. You're bigger than he and you just let him walk in there and do God knows what to her? You're just as bad as him!” Sherlock spat at him.

Mycroft stood up from the bed and slapped Sherlock. Hard. “If I thought he was doing anything to her besides smacking her around don't you think I'd have killed the old bastard? You think I'd let him... do things to her?”

“I don't know what to think of you, Mycroft. You never seem to cease at surprising me. To me, you're weak and pathetic and you do what Siger tells you so you can get his job some day.” Sherlock turned away from his older brother in disgust. Mycroft was supposed to be the man Sherlock could look up to, the one Sherlock could dream of being just like. Instead, Sherlock attempted to be everything his brother wasn't.

“Perhaps you are right, but if I get his job we won't ever have to deal with his kind ever again. You and Charlotte can live in nice houses and get good jobs and won't ever have to worry about a thing. You can be happy. Yes, you'll have to suffer for a few years, but don't we all? Isn't that the price of getting everything you ever dreamed of? I only hope you can someday see things the way I do, Sherlock, because I'm really trying on your behalf.” Mycroft turned without another word toward the door, only pausing to look back at his bruised and broken brother one last time, then locked the door behind him.

Sherlock huffed in anger, then began to ransack his already ransacked room in search of his usb drives. If Siger saw those he'd go absolutely mad. He didn't find his duffel bag or the drives, perhaps they left them on the street with Michael and John. Feeling a tad relieved, Sherlock sat back down on his bed and promptly fell asleep.

The next few weeks were filled with beatings and once a day feedings. He was locked in his room most of the time except when he was allowed to bathe and exercise in their home gym. His father watched him take his medication and made him go cold turkey with his drugs. Sherlock's father locked him in the bathroom during his withdrawal, taking away anything he could hurt himself with, or use to get high. Siger sat outside the bathroom door as Sherlock screamed and begged for the pain to stop. His bones felt like they were being ground down and crushing him at the same time. Huddled around the toilet, he took the kicks and punches that Siger gave to him, all the while planning his revenge on the old man.

He came up with absolutely horrid things to do to his father. It began to eat him from the inside out, turning his heart black with rage. He wasn't allowed to see Charlotte. She was locked up in her room on the other side of the mansion. Sherlock could sometimes hear her screams echoing around the marble floors and walls. After a month or two, Sherlock rarely heard her scream at all. He'd stopped screaming too, taking the beatings with stoic silence, waiting for his next move.  


	4. Escape

Three months after his damned incarceration inside of his own home, Sherlock awoke in the dead of night to find John Watson standing at the foot of his bed. John was gathering clothes into a duffel bag in silence. When he saw Sherlock looking at him he calmly placed a finger to his lips, indicating that he wanted no sound to escape from Sherlock's bruised face. Sherlock mouthed Charlotte's name.

“Michael.” John mouthed back, then pointed at Sherlock's open window. The bars had been removed, the alarm light was off. They'd disconnected the security system.

Sherlock could barely move from his bed, let alone jump out the window. Siger had broken his arm and he could barely see out of his left eye. He stood up from the bed and silently made his way toward the window.

Charlotte and Michael were waiting near the dumpster. Charlotte's hair had grown longer since Sherlock had last seen her. He could barely see them for the darkness, but Sherlock could tell that she was limping.

Without a word, John tied a rope around Sherlock's emaciated waist, then lowered him down to the dumpster. Michael helped him out, then led them to the west side of the yard, far away from the front gates. Michael pushed aside a hedge, revealing the portion of the fence that he'd cut out. He smiled at Sherlock as he shoved him through. Sherlock held his hands out in front of him to guide his way. He almost yelped in shock as he felt two petite hands snatch his hands in the darkness.

Sherlock squinted his eyes to find himself looking into the large brown eyes of the fisherman's daughter. Molly kissed him on the cheek and gave him a small hug, then intertwined her fingers with his as they waited for the other three to make their way through the fence.

Sherlock hugged his sister with his free hand and kissed her on the cheek, feeling her swollen face beneath his lips.

“Michael and Charlotte are going west along the back alleys. You and Molly are going to go north. Let Molly lead, she knows where the hiding spot is. Michael and Charlotte are going to wait at the west docks for me to pick them up.” John rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he adjusted his shoes. He had Sherlock's and Charlotte's duffel bags slung over his broad shoulders. “I'm going to meet you in two days at the docks, okay? Keep yourselves hidden. I'll be there around two a.m. Please be ready.” Without another word, John nodded at them, then headed south. Charlotte gave him a kiss on the cheek and a weak hug, Michael doing the same to his own sister, then they all parted ways.

Molly led him through gardens and alleys, all the while whispering to him sweet words.

“We've been planning for months, Sherlock. I can't even imagine what happened to you in there. We've been watching the house. You can hear the screaming for blocks. We though you'd both died. We couldn't hear anything for a while. Once, John thought he caught a glimpse of you in the window, and that was enough to keep us going. I'm just sorry we couldn't get you out sooner.” She told him as they paused for a break. Sherlock was struggling to keep up in his emaciated state. The small girl weaved in and out of the buildings just like he'd used to. She'd obviously been coming into the city on a regular basis. Sherlock used to make fun of her for getting lost in the confusion of London, since she was so used to her boat. Now it was his turn to feel out of place.

“I'm just happy that you remembered us. I was thinking I'd never see you again.” He whispered as he held her close, drinking in her scent. Even though she lived on a boat, Molly had never smelled like fish. She always smelled of vanilla and hazelnuts, which he absolutely loved.

They ran all night, only pausing when Sherlock could barely keep going. After almost two hours of running did they finally slow down. It was a mistake, too, because almost five whole minutes after slowing their pace, the black car rolled down the street, creeping up on them like beast stalking its prey.

 


	5. Snowballing

John had run south, then circled around London to get to the docks. It had take him a while but he'd finally made it.

John had noticed the black car the had been tailing him. He was fine with it, glad to lead it off of Charlotte and Sherlock's trail. He slowed down after awhile, letting the car catch up with him. His father had been a missionary, so John knew how to deal with this sort of thing. He pretended to look exhausted, even though he was far from it.

A man stepped out of the car, his black suit almost making him invisible in the night. Without a word, the man walked up behind John, iron bar in one hand, tazer in the other. John let him get close, then whipped around and grabbed the man's wrist, forcing the Tazer to fall from his grip.

The man quickly retaliated, swinging the bar upward, catching John in the shoulder, causing him to stumble. John dropped to the ground and kicked out a leg, breaking the man's knee. The man cried out in pain and fell to the ground.

John only got to feel a small surge of pride before another man picked up the iron bar and bashed him in the back of the head with it. John's vision went red, the blood pulsing loudly in his ears. With another swing, John's eyesight began to fade. Looking frantically, he found the Tazer. Using part of his remaining strength, he held up his hand stop the bar, using the other to shove the Tazer deep into the other man's neck.

The man dropped like a rock, leaving John alone in the darkness. He pulled himself upward, then stumbled along the alleyways for what felt like hours. His legs felt like jelly, becoming weaker with each step. As the light began creep up over the buildings, John found a park. He collapsed on one of the benches, and when he finally saw people begin to walk the streets, he allowed the darkness to cover him completely.


	6. So near escape

Sherlock and Molly picked up their bags to begin running. Three men stepped out of the car.

“Stop. I just want to talk, Sherlock.” Siger calmly stated as he made his way toward his youngest son.

“Why should I talk to you?” He spat.

“Because you have no where to go and no one to meet. Your friends?” He added when Sherlock's gaze faltered. “Your sister? Dead. Do you want to be next?”

Molly gave a small shriek, covering her mouth with her free hand.

“If it gets us away from you.” She shuddered, yet her gaze was startlingly steady. Molly glared at Siger, her eyes full of hate and anger just waiting to burst out.

“Ooh, you're a feisty one. My daughter used to be like that, but... well, we can fix that.” He gave Molly a cruel smile, then snapped his fingers impatiently at his goons.

They walked toward Sherlock and Molly, one holding a knife, the other holding a pipe. Sherlock pushed Molly behind him and went for the man with the knife. Sherlock glimpsed Molly pull her own knife from her pocket as she threw herself on the other man.

Sherlock threw his fist at the man, feeling his nose crunch underneath it. The man hardly faltered, only pausing to get a good grip on Sherlock, then hurtling him into the nearest building. Sherlock hit the wall with a crack, his head smacking the pavement with a sickening crunch.

Molly threw her knife to him just as the man was bearing down on Sherlock. He caught it, fumbled with it, then thrust it upward as forcefully as he could. He saw the knife plunge into the man's throat, then heard the gargle as he fell. Sherlock looked up as the other man threw Molly into the wall headfirst. Her small body crumpled, then lay still.

Filled with rage and anger, Sherlock quickly plunged the knife into the man's stomach. As he fell, Sherlock turned toward his father, who was staring at him in shock. Siger put his hands out, then began pleading with his youngest son.

“I'm your father. You wouldn't kill your own father, would you boy?” Siger's eyes began to moisten as he begged. Oddly enough, Sherlock felt no satisfaction seeing the man on his knees, only hot anger, the noise of Molly's head hitting brick ringing in his ears.

“I don't know.” He coldly spat. “Would I?” Sherlock thrust the knife as hard as he could into his father's abdomen, then pulled it upwards. Siger spat blood, then looked at his son with horror and fear, his body poisoning itself as his stomach acid was released from it's home. Without another look and adrenaline pumping through his veins, Sherlock picked Molly up over his shoulder, and as the sun rose over the buildings, carried her to St. Bart's hospital.


	7. Depths of Despair

Michael and Charlotte reached the marina at around two. Their hands were numb from the cold, hardly keeping warm even though they were intertwined tightly. They breathed a sigh of relief and sat down on one of the docks, collapsing in an exhausted heap.

“Thank you.” Charlotte whispered, refusing to look Michael in the eye. The light washed over her angelic face to reveal dark bruises all the way down her neck. Michael was sure that if she hadn't been wearing a coat one would see bruises covering her pale body.

“Wasn't any trouble. You don't deserve to be there. I still have Sherlock's usb.” Michael pulled a chain from his coat to reveal the drive hanging around his neck. “I've kept it safe.”

“It won't do much. He'll just kill you all and lock Sherly and I in our rooms again until we turn eighteen.” She gloomily looked at the drive. Michael could see that she'd been broken, probably beyond repair. Her eyes held no spark, no gleam to indicate being alive.

“What did he do to you?” Michael cautiously laid a hand on her shoulder. She shuddered underneath his grip.

“Things no father should ever do to his daughter.” She clenched her small fists in her lap. They were bruised as well. Her tiny wrists were littered in purple and blue. Michael could feel the rage surge through him, just as he'd felt it when he heard Charlotte's screams piercing his ears. The way he'd felt it every time he saw Siger Holmes breathing air instead of screaming in pain far worse than anything he'd done to his family.

Michael decided to leave it at that and not pry. They both looked up as they felt footsteps on the dock. A man in a black suit was steadily making his way toward them. Michael wordlessly grabbed Charlotte's hand and they quickly ran away from the man. Turning onto another dock, they found themselves staring at two more men.

One of the men waved at Michael, then started walking Michael Myers style toward them. From that, Michael could tell that there were many more of them. They kept running, making their way deep into the maze of docks, Charlotte's hand gripping his tighter and tighter as the sea churned beneath their feet.

“The girl should be home with her father, Michael.” One of the men said behind him. Then they all began saying it, over and over.

“The girl should be home with her father, Michael.” It began to ring in his ears. They ran faster, making sharp turns and barely tuning out the crashing waves. They turned one last time to find themselves staring at a dead end. There was no where else to run. They were finished. Months of careful planning, all down the drain.

“Michael!” Charlotte screamed over the waves. Her dark hair whipped around her cheeks. The look on her face was pure fear, and Michael was sure that his was the same. “I'm not going back!” She looked out to sea, determination etched onto her bruised features.

Michael nodded at her. He gripped her hand tighter, then kissed her hard on the lips, savoring every bit of it. Then he took a deep breath, his legs shaking. With one last look, they both ran, full speed, off the dock and into the churning abyss. The blackness swallowed them quickly, yet they never let go of each other, no matter how the sea pushed them. They stayed locked in their embrace until they both allowed the water to enter their lungs, and the sea took them as its own.


	8. Remember Me No More

The next day Sherlock waited at Molly's bedside like a guard dog, watching the nurses change her bindings and refill her intravenous tube. Her mother came to visit, texting on her phone the entire time as the doctors told them of Molly and John's conditions.

“Both of them were hit with such force that it seems like they'll most likely have amnesia. They may or may not get over it, I really have no clue.” The dark haired doctor told them, his hands fiddling with his clipboard. “You'll just have to give it time.”

Sherlock was careful to stay away from John's room while his parents were visiting. He wasn't sure that he wanted John or Molly to remember him.

“I don't understand, Sherlock. Molly absolutely adores you! Why don't you want her remembering you?” Molly's mother asked as she scrolled through her phone.

“It's for the best, Mrs. Hooper. Just, please, don't mention me to her.” She reluctantly agreed to his terms. When Molly finally woke up, she didn't remember Sherlock Holmes, or the two years that they'd been friends. She only remembered the things she'd learned in school, but not her teachers or friends.

John only lost six months of his memory, all of the memories of Sherlock Holmes. He'd told the doctors some cock and bull story of how Michael and Molly had been mugged by the docks. John had tried to help, only getting himself hurt in the process.

Mycroft pulled some strings and told police that Siger had committed suicide at the docks, taking Charlotte with him. Charlotte, Michael and Siger's bodies were never recovered from the sea.

After finishing his statements, Sherlock Holmes walked out of St. Bart's and didn't look back. Molly Hooper and John Watson didn't remember him, and maybe that's what was for the better.

His old psychiatrist rented him a flat at 221B, after he helped put away her husband. Mycroft got Siger's old position in the British government, even though Sherlock never really understood what he even did. Sherlock never really forgave Mycroft, though he now tolerates him for family's sake.

He'd almost forgotten how beautiful Molly was, until he saw her again in the morgue years later. It was the first case he agreed to help on. The first thing he smelled wasn't the stench of decay, it was vanilla and hazelnuts. It brought him back to that night in the alley, and he almost staggered backwards at the memory.

“Don't worry, you'll get used to it.” Molly smiled at him when she saw him trip. “It doesn't take that long. I'm Molly, by the way.” For a moment, Sherlock almost thought she recognized him, by the way she was obviously intrigued at the very sight of him. She didn't even remember his name.

A few years after that, Mike Stamford brought John Watson back into his life. The short man, though aged and wounded, seemed to like Sherlock from the start. Sherlock tried to scare him away, but it didn't work. He couldn't ever allow Molly to be put into danger like that again, but he couldn't shake John, so he let him stay. He'd vowed to never put them in danger like that again, now that he was strong and capable, yet somehow trouble always seemed to find him. He didn't really care, as long as he was alive, he'd never let anyone hurt them. He'd protect them. Forever.


End file.
